


you want a resolution, some kind of revolution (tell me what you want me to say)

by knightship



Series: big bad wolf in a little red hood [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Stiles, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Pack Training, Rimming, Werewolf Sex, bottom!Derek, wallsex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightship/pseuds/knightship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has to make a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you want a resolution, some kind of revolution (tell me what you want me to say)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts), [Betty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Betty/gifts), [Thallys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thallys/gifts), [harpers_child](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpers_child/gifts), [forpony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forpony/gifts), [StilesStilinskiMcCall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StilesStilinskiMcCall/gifts).



> I hadn't planned on making this a series, but what can I say? The comments on the last were so inspiring, and it made me want to do so much more with Alpha!Stiles. Gifted to those who commented last time, for their massive boost in my confidence.

He’s got Jackson pinned face first in the dirt, his nice (way too expensive) shirt bunched around his fist.

“You yield?” he asks, almost lazily. He loves giving Jackson a proper ass whooping. It always brings him down a peg, at least for a while. 

“Yeah, I yield,” Jackson huffs, and he lets the beta up with more grace than he currently has, having once again established that for all his talk, Jackson is still the weakest member of their pack. Speaking of, Derek looks around with a grin for Stiles-

-who’s giggling with Scott at something on his phone, and not paying attention to the practical demonstration of fighting tactics that they’ve put on specifically for his benefit. Derek’s grin falls, and he dusts dirt (and a little bit of Jackson’s scalp, ew) off of his hands for a second before he straightens up, glaring. He silently swears to god if they’re morphing his face with that grumpy cat again, he’s going to hurt someone.

“Stiles!”

Their Alpha just looks up from his phone, still smiling.

“That was great, Derek, really good job making Jackson look like a pussy, bravo.”

“Fuck you, Stilinski,” Jackson says, without any fire, and Stiles grants him a smug little air kiss.

“Stiles, you were supposed to be paying attention,” Derek says, and Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I was! You did the thing,” he says, making a flipping motion with his hand. 

“Do you think you could do it?” Derek asks, arms crossed, and Stiles gives him one of those half-grins that usually promises sex.

“I don’t want to brag, but yeah, dude, I totally could,” he says, and he’s so relaxed, so easy-going, that it’s difficult not to simply take him at his word. Derek’s well trained in never taking Stiles at his word though, and grins.

“Good. Then you’ll fight Peter.”

And that’s where Derek’s drawn the line in the sand.

His place in Stiles’ pack is...uneasy, to say the least. Scott technically has the position as Stiles’ second in command, but more and more frequently he turns to Derek in times when he should turn to Scott. Derek’s knowledge of how all this works, and their casual relationship, are giving him more and more leeway to wrestle for power. And so his declaration that Stiles will fight Peter, not should, but will, is the type of thing Scott can get away with because he’s second, but Derek can only get away with if Stiles lets him, or if Scott doesn’t challenge it. And from the shock and anger and then determined look at Stiles, he’s going to leave it up to their Alpha.

Stiles looks momentarily stunned, but he knows Stiles is just gathering his thoughts from the way his tongue pokes around in his cheek. Finally he tosses his phone up for Scott to catch and sheds his hoodie, beckoning silently for Peter. Derek knows for a fact that Peter is the only wolf Stiles is really scared of, because Peter is relentless in how eager he is for power, and there’s the little detail of how Stiles already killed him once. He had a taste of what it was to be an Alpha, and Stiles is still vulnerable enough that Peter could get it back if he tried hard enough. Derek’s practically offering it to him on a platter. Or he would, if he wasn’t completely confident in his ability to protect Stiles from him if it comes down to it.

Peter’s grin is horrifying. Derek itches to wipe it off his face, and Stiles looks nervous as they start circling each other in the dirt out on the Preserve. Peter plays it like a tango because he’s an asshole with a dramatic flair a mile wide, and his back-and-forth has got Stiles mad. 

“You’re an asshole,” Scott says next to him. He’s biting his nails, watching them pace it out, and he’s truly nervous.

“Yeah, but he knows what he’s doing,” he says, and that’s when Peter makes his move. He’d have thought Stiles would move first, but he’s glad it’s Peter. He charges like a bull, and Stiles holds himself until the last minute. What Stiles is supposed to do, what Derek was showing him, is grab Peter by the back of the neck and force him to tuck his head until he rolls onto his back, but Peter’s smarter than that. He gets an arm around Stiles’ torso, and then it’s just growling and snarling, Stiles trying to shove Peter’s head down and not get bitten, Peter trying to plow Stiles over into the dirt. Stiles is stronger than Peter, but Peter has the better grip, and one surprise kick to the back of Stiles’ knee has him down in the dirt.

Derek moves closer in an instant, ready to snap Peter’s neck if he needs to. Surprisingly, Stiles has it under control as soon as he knees Peter in the chest, twists his grip on his hair until Peter rolls off of him and onto his back, and leans over him enough to put his claws against his throat, his fangs extended.

“Yield?” he asks, breathless and ruthless. Fuck, it’s hot.

Peter laughs, wheezing, and says, “Yield.” 

Stiles grins a little and levers himself up, and then waits a second to see if Peter will do anything once he’s let free. He lays in the dirt, limp and completely at Stiles’ mercy and seemingly happy to be so. Not for the first time, Derek wonders if things were different, would the two of them be fucking like Derek and Stiles are fucking?

Stiles walks away from Peter, not turning his back until he reaches Derek. He spends a moment brushing dirt off of his shoulders, popping his shirt with a flick of his fingers.

“Fuck you very much, Mr. Hale,” he says, still fanged and biting his lips bloody with his smile. Derek grins at him, a low heat building in his gut. Scott makes a disgusted noise.

“Ugh, if you two are going to go mate now, do it away from me,” he says, and drifts away to Jackson.

For a second the wording of it doesn’t click with Derek, and then he gets what he means and what he’s done. Scott didn’t take his words as challenge for second. He took them as a declaration of Derek’s intent to court Stiles, in the formal way mates challenge each other to improve constantly.

“I didn’t mean to make it seem like I was- I was jockeying Scott, not forcing your hand,” he says instantly, and Stiles considers him for a moment. He looks almost...disappointed.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Wait, what?” he says, feeling suddenly like he’s been really fucking stupid as of late, and everyone has neglected to tell him.

“I know, okay? You wouldn’t do that.” With that, Stiles goes to collect his hoodie and phone from Scott, and they start talking. Derek’s fledgling boner has been thoroughly squashed, and he’s trying to catch up with the conversation. 

“Wait, yes I would, I would completely do that! What the hell are we even talking about here?” he asks, butting over the conversation Scott is trying to have with Stiles. Stiles takes a moment to slump and stare at the sky, frustration rolling off of him in waves, and then he simply gives Derek a look, his top lip lifting in a snarl, that has him taking a step back, although he’s grinding his teeth and trying not to growl.

Scott looks like he wants to laugh and hit them both at the same time, and Jackson mutters, “Numbskulls,” as he stalks off.

He fumes for a couple of hours, because he should be smarter than that. Dammit, he’d been thinking for days of how to declare to Scott that he wasn’t going to take orders from him anymore, that he was going to make Scott become third, that he was going to be closer to Stiles. And Stiles let him get away with it, too! Which means Stiles wants him to-

He wants to be mates, he’s just waiting on Derek.

When Stiles crawls through his bedroom window sometime after midnight, eyes blazing red, as he usually does on a Saturday night, Derek doesn’t instant strip, not even when Stiles gives his jeans an offended look.

“We have to talk,” he says, hating the words as they come out of his mouth because they make him sound like that guy. The relationship guy. He’s not that guy.

“Mmmkay, how about you go first,” Stiles says, and then abruptly drops to his knees and starts licking his face. Which society says he should totally not like as much as he does, and it makes it hard to concentrate.

“No, Stiles, seriously,” he says, and pushes Stiles away. When Stiles pushes Derek down on the bed and crawls on top of him, he expects it, because Stiles is a pushy brat Alpha who likes to disregard boundaries and take every inoppurtune moment as the perfect time to establish dominance.

“Stiles,” he sighs, but it’s annoyed enough that Stiles pauses mid-lick and pulls back to look at him.

“You’re serious.”

“Which is why I said “seriously”,” he snaps, and Stiles backs away a little more, settling on his haunches to look down at Derek.

“Okay, so what are we seriously talking about right now?” Stiles says, looking irritated, like Derek is the one who was being a sex-crazed idiot.

“Earlier today. Did you take my challenge as a mating offer, or as me trying to piss off Scott?”

Stiles sighs, his red eyes going brown, and scratches at his head, clearly thinking it over and not enjoying it, which is doing wonders for Derek’s self-esteem.

“I took at as you trying to piss off Scott, because I figured if you wanted to be mates, you’d make me bite you, instead of just offering up your throat every time we fuck. And it wouldn’t be out of character for you to do something stupid just to make Scott blow a gasket,” he says, leaning over again to speak to Derek’s chin as he scratches over Derek’s Adam’s apple with blunt, human nails. Derek struggles not to shiver and fails.

“Did you want it to be an offer?”

Stiles sighs again and presses a kiss to where his nails just were, then abruptly sits up so much they’re barely touching.

“I want to be with you, stupid. But what do you want?”

Derek stares, mouth open, and then snaps it shut.

“Derek, dude, it’s a simple question. What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me what you want,” he says, knowing it sounds dumb, and Stiles gives him a look like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. He actually shakes his head, too, like that can dispel the words from his brain.

“No, Derek, I already said- ugh. Okay. This is apparently one of those concepts that you can’t understand because you were born this way, and now there’s Lady Gaga in my brain, thanks for that. We’ll start off simple, and get back to this conversation later, when we’ve expanded your mind. What do you want me to do to you?”

“Do?” he asks, because apparently today is the day Derek Hale lost all cognitive function.

“Yeah, idiot, do. As in sex,” Stiles clarifies, rubbing his hands down Derek’s thighs for emphasis. Ah, okay. Derek can do sex. Sex in the middle of a serious conversation seems kind of like the best idea Stiles has ever had, but he’s not going to say so because he’s also kind of struggling with answering Stiles’ actual question. Which is stupid because he’s bossy and he knows what he wants, he knows exactly what he wants, but he’s not quite sure how to say it. He’s never really...gotten the chance to get exactly what he wants during sex. Not to say that it’s bad, or that he’s been dissatisfied, he knows he’s lucky that Stiles isn’t a monster when it comes to being dominating, which is kind of hilarious considering he’s an actual monster nowadays. It’s that what he wants is new and embarrassing to say out loud and he’s not sure either of them are actually capable of it yet.

“...do you even want to have sex with me?” Stiles asks, after he’s taken too long to answer. The look on his face is positively horrified.

“Would we stop having sex if I did?”

Stiles doesn’t answer for a long time, and his expression slowly becomes more and more horrified.

“I’m going to ignore that and say yes, I would love to have the sex with you. And kisses.” He reaches up to cup the curve of Stiles’ skull as he leans back down, Stiles smirking.

“That was a Supernatural reference, and you’re suddenly admitting you like kissing. I totally knew I was having an influence,” he says. Derek concentrates on relaxing, on letting himself be kissed, because Stiles has a really good mouth and he’s really good at kissing. And Stiles gets handsy when he kisses, and he enjoys the almost-ticklish sensation of fingers skimming up his stomach, pressing in on his ribs and then circling around to dig in low on his back. He likes the rhythm of it, the push and pull, when Stiles gets greedy and kisses harder, open-mouthed and spit-slick, and then slows down to soft, barely-there things that has Derek searching blindly for his mouth again. It’s on one of the stronger surges of kissing that Stiles hands find his thighs again, only this time they skirt down the outside, and as soon as Stiles’ fingers dig into the sensitive skin just above the back of his knees, his legs fall open of their own accord, and the inhale that should have given him away gets pulled into Stiles’ mouth, along with his tongue.

For a nice, drifty couple of minutes, Derek is focused on nothing but tongues and teeth and lips and spit, and then Stiles hands dig in to the backs of his thighs, sliding rough and hard over the denim up to his ass, and the breathy, excited noise he makes and the clenching of his hands on Stiles’ neck and the arch of his back isn’t lost this time.

Stiles pulls away, eyes and cheeks red. He looks feverish when he flushes, all splotchy and dark against pale skin, and the smell is amazing.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, and Derek stares at him, at his mouth and his eyes and his human teeth. Months ago this definitely wouldn’t be possible. The first time, Stiles nearly severed his spinal cord, his claws got that deep. Now they’ve been making out for almost a half an hour and his teeth aren’t even sharp.

He nods, and Stiles lets out this noise, needy and impossibly deep, against his cheek.

“Fuck. Can I suck you off? I want to. I promise not to bite,” he says, shucking eagerly at Derek’s shirt. Derek arches to give him more room, even though the air is cold and he’d rather not. Stiles is all over him in half a second, biting a nipple hard enough to break blood vessels and pressing dragging red finger marks along his oblique that fade as soon as his hand moves to the button of his jeans. The harsh sucking marks he makes against Derek’s stomach, all the way down to the zipper Stiles unzips slow and torturous, are nothing like how a different mouth touched him, but for a minute it’s hard to forget that it’s not her and there won’t be lipstick there when he looks.

“Relax,” Stiles mutters into his navel, blinking long lashes at him until he does, and then turns studiously back to pulling Derek’s dick out of his pants and pressing his nose to the base of it. Derek closes his eyes and lets himself sink into sensation, lets himself gasp at the first touch of tongue to the tip of his cock, and then Stiles closes his mouth around the head and Derek tenses up. 

It’s not the good kind of tensing, and Stiles notices instantly and slips off.

“Hey,” he demands, brow furrowed, “what has your panties all twisted up your ass?”

Derek opens his eyes, and his face must say something of what he’s thinking about, because Stiles doesn’t even let him answer before he sits back, scraping both hands over his scalp with an angry noise.

Derek lays there and tries not to feel pathetic. With how his day’s gone so far, it’s no wonder he fails at that too.

“She’s fucking dead, let it go,” Stiles hisses, and he knows intellectually that Stiles isn’t really mad at him, but try telling that to his mouth.

“I’ve tried. You don’t think I’m trying to, right now? It’s not as fucking easy as you’d think,” he snaps, and then out of frustration tucks himself away and zips his jeans back up. Stiles lets him get all the way across the room before claws catch at the back of his neck, and he’s slammed into the wall face first. His instant instinct is to scramble to get the upper hand, but then Stiles’ teeth take the place of his claws, and he goes limp. After a second the teeth turn to lips, kiss all the way up to his jawline and then slide off, Stiles rubbing his cheek into Derek’s stubble and making all kinds of apologetic noises.

“I don’t mean to act like a dick, I just need to make you feel good. Let me do that, okay?”

There’s a desperation in Stiles’ voice that he doesn’t want to examine too closely, so he lets out a breath and says, 

“Okay, but no more blowjobs. Not right now.”

Stiles goes loose with relief, and then reaches around to unzip his jeans again. He thinks he’s going to get a hand on his dick, or that Stiles will turn him around so they’re face to face. Instead he pulls them down just enough to be loose, and then slides his hands achingly slow down the back to get two handfuls of his ass, his fingers spread broad and squeezing hard. Derek turns his face into the wall to try and hide the way his mouth falls open.

“You’re really an ass slut, aren’t you? God, look at you. I don’t want to leave you alone for long enough to go get the lube. Guess I’ll just have to lick you.” 

When Derek shudders, Stiles laughs and presses him into the wall with his shoulders, and turns to pushing his jeans all the way down. Once he’s naked, he hears the slick sound of Stiles with his fingers in his mouth. He wants to turn and look, but his other hand comes up and pushes his face into the wall, then sets each of his hands flat next to his head and commands with a press into his knuckles that they stay there.

Two fingertips, slick with spit but still not nearly wet enough, slide down to his ass and push at his hole, slip inside just enough to feel like yes, he’s going to get fucked, and then Stiles pulls them out again. It goes like this for minutes, Derek panting damp against the bare drywall, Stiles quiet and focused and deliberately teasing, until Derek finally swallows and says, 

“Stiles, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll-” he doesn’t have to finish the thought, because Stiles slides down to the floor like he was waiting for it. He lifts Derek’s leg until his knee is level with his ribs, compresses it flat to the wall, and circles his tongue only once before pushing it in as far as he can. Derek keens, he can’t help it, and Stiles tongue-fucks him as deep and as wet and as hard as he can for a minute, turns his face to get a breath, and goes back in with kitten licks and sucking lips and Derek’s going to come in four seconds if he keeps this up, it’s insane how close he is so fast. He gets two fingers up to the first knuckle while Stiles bites into his lower back, a zing of pain to haze the pleasure a little, and then Stiles scissors his fingers and fucks his tongue into the space created. 

“If you seriously don’t fuck me I’m going to come, I want you inside me when I come, please,” he gasps, too fast and too garbled to be of any sense. Stiles doesn’t let up, and when he reaches back with one hand he gets a broken finger for the trouble. The sick lightening burn of bone edges rubbing together wrong shouldn’t make it harder to breathe, shouldn’t make his dick leak precome, but Derek doesn’t even care any more. He slams his hand into the wall just to feel the last jolt of pain whip down his spine before it heals, and Stiles groans into his ass and bites his cheek, just a nip, with his fingers buried as deep and as wide as they can go.

“I gotta fuck you now. Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, go already,” he begs, and Stiles gets up shakily, flopping in to him as he struggles with his jeans.

“This time, if you offer me your neck, I’m not going to turn it down, you understand me? Don’t offer unless you’re sure, unless you want it,” he says, and Derek nods frantically when he feels the slick head of Stiles’ dick against his ass.

The push in is too tootootooo much, half dry friction and blunt pain from where he’s not loose enough yet, the stretch of muscles unprepared and the jump of all of his nerves at how good it is anyways. Stiles moans into the groove of his shoulder, his forehead damp and the smell of sex is everywhere, is going to be ground into this wall forever and he’s not even sorry. 

It only takes Stiles two shallow thrusts for him to come, and after that everything is pin-sharp awareness and too much sensation. He thinks about it, for a minute, in the haze of orgasm. Turning his chin up high and letting Stiles sink his teeth in. He wants that. It’s everything he wants for himself and his Alpha and his pack, but Stiles is still young and so new at this. It doesn’t feel right, in his bones, to steal Stiles from everything like that so soon, so he tucks his chin to his collarbone and tries not to whimper as Stiles fucks him through his orgasm, through it and past it and into his own. Teeth sink into the bone of his shoulder, but they’re square and don’t even break the skin, don’t even leave much of an ache. Stiles is getting better every time they do this, even if he’s still shaky and over-reactive in the aftershocks.

When Stiles can breathe without snarling again, Derek nudges at him a little with his shoulder. He gets the message and pulls out, hissing at the sensation and maybe staring at Derek still spread out like a porn starlet against the wall. He puts his leg down, grimacing at the momentary cramp, and Stiles lets him have the room to flop back onto his bed.

“Huh. Interpretive art,” he says, jerking a thumb at the jizz stain on the wall. Derek grunts and pulls a pillow over his face, breathing deep. He feels good, blissed out and a secret tension he didn’t know he had has unknotted from his shoulders and lower back. And his ass still hurts, just enough to feel like he had sex that was really good.

“So,” Stiles says, flopping down next to him and shaking the whole bed, “you up for cuddling?”

Derek opens an arm wordlessly, and Stiles snuggles up, still wearing his fucking ten layers of shirts and his jeans, the little asshole.

Stiles wriggles, and plants kisses all over Derek’s neck that seem wistful and resigned.

“I didn’t- I wanted to,” he says, into the pillow, “I just don’t think it’s time yet.”

“Oh. Hmm,” Stiles says, and bites happily at the space just under his chin, “I think you’re right. It’s like there’s still sand in the wolfy hourglass or something.”

“Mmhmm,” he says, and after that maybe drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, the stain on the wall is framed by some gaudy gilt thing. He finds out when he tries to take it off that Stiles Gorilla Glued it to the wall.


End file.
